Unholy Alliance
by Blackadder261
Summary: After two agents are kidnapped by a new and unknown threat, two pairs of arch-enemies must work together- That is, if they want to live. Rated M for decriptions of torture and foul language. (Logged complete as I have no motivation to write the final chapter, not do I know how I want to write it).
1. Wake-Up Call

_Location: Unknown._

Tracer woke with a stinging, burning sensation in her head, as though someone had poured petrol inside it and set it alight. Her arms were twisted up above her head, and she couldn't think clearly. She spat out whatever was in her mouth-blood, by the look of it in the dim light- and tried to bring her arms down, to no avail. She glanced up, to see that they were chained to the wall above her. Slowly, things started to piece back together in her head.

 _The splintering of the door being kicked in. The men bursting into the room, balaclavas, armed and dangerous. The feeling of joy as she took the two of them down, seeing their shocked expression. Then, a sharp pain in the back of her head followed by everything going black._ _Must've missed one of them._

She knew that whoever had put her in here had taken her accelerator. She noticed as well that somehow, they had a miniature version like that she occasionally used at home, and she was wearing it on her wrist. But how did they know how to do that, or have the technology to do it? Only two organisations she knew of had the ability and resources to do this: she worked for one of them. Her mind meandered back onto the rapidly spreading inferno of agony all over her body.

 _Come to think of it-ARGH- this hurts._ _A lot._

Her body was slowly waking back up. And as it did, more and more pain flooded in. It felt as though someone had broken half the bones in her body. Her arms burned with the scars of at least a hundred marks where someone seemes to have whipped her. The small scorch marks on her chest and neck where some sadistic bastard had stubbed out a cigar on her. More information returned to her consciousness.

 _Being dragged through a damp, dark corridor. Thrown onto a metal chair. Questions being barked at her. Being beaten and whipped and scalded as she refused to comply_. _Her lungs screaming out for air as she was forced into a bucket of water and held under. The terror as the sensation of 30 Volts being passed through her with jump-leads reminded her of the feelings she'd experienced when the Slipstream test went to shit._

She tried to scream out in pain, only to manage a hoarse whimper. She panted, trying to regain her composure. Her throat was dry, and it felt like someone had fired superheated steam down it. _Bet Talon's loving having me as a guest. Or they're gonna, especially with Ms Indigo leading the..._

Her thought trailed off as she locked onto movement against the wall, close to her. She squinted as best she could to try and make out- _No. This doesn't make any sense!_ A figure in a purple skinsuit. A tattoo on her arm, _Cauchemar._ And moreover, she looked twice as bad as Tracer felt, and then more.

Tracer couldn't understand. Talon _HAD_ to be behind her kidnapping. So why on earth was Widowmaker locked up in here in just as bad a state as her? Unless...

 _Think, Lena! Who else have you pissed off enough over the years to get this kinda treatment?_ No faces or groups sprang to mind. _Fuck! My head still feels like I'm hungover._

She froze, hearing footsteps thudding down the corridor. _Shit! No, no, please no! Not again!_ The metal door swung open, connecting with the wall with a clang. Two guards stormed in. One removed her restraints. She tried to resist them- the only thing she could think to do, given what she knew was coming next- to be met with the sensation of a broken bone being grated in her chest as one of the guards whipped her with a baton, before kneeling on her as she lay face-down in the waste littering the cell floor and tightening another pair of restraints on her wrists, and dragging her to her feet. She shot one last glance at her cellmate as she was dragged into the lights.

And the process began again.

"Look, Ms Oxton- Tracer, whatever the fuck you call yourself- nobody knows you're here. So, we're free to do as we see fit to get what we want from you. Getting the idea yet, or do we need to run that over your head again?"

Tracer couldn't help but snort slightly with laughter- despite it causing her to cough afterward- at the ridiculous manner of her interrogator. The stance that tried to say "Be afraid of me", yet did the opposite, the all-black suit with the polished black brogues. _Looks like HR need to hire a new stylist, hehe-_

"Ah, you wanna be a funny bitch, huh? Don't you worry, _luv_ , we have the perfect thing for that." He gestured to the guards in the room.

Before Tracer could react, she was on her back on the chair, lying painfully on her shattered arms. A guard brought over a hosepipe. It was forced into her mouth, and turned on. The water forced its aay through her throat into her stomach, some of it penetrating into her lungs, causing her to feel as though she was drowning. After what felt like an eternity, the water was switched off. She lay coughing and retching, as she attempted to get air back into her lungs. Her interrogator strode up, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her face level with his,dragging her up with the seat she was still cuffed to.

"You can try the 'unbreakable' act all you please, dear. It's not going to stop us from getting the information we want."

Another gesture to the guards, and a whipping sound behind her, followed by a sharp pain in the back of her head. She crumpled to the floor, her vision fading from the outside in.

Her hearing blurred, but she made out the conversation-barely- over the phone that her tormentor was having as she lay limp at his feet.

"...still refusing...talk. Shall...step up...tactics? Unders...d, sir."

The last words she could make out as she passed into blissful unconsciousness.


	2. Nemeses Unite

_The ruins of Overwatch: Switzerland._ _2 hours later._

Morrison stood on one of the still-standing parapets that formed the lower platform of the former Headquarters. Back in its heyday, he would stand here, taking in the beauty of the Swiss countryside which the fortress-like building overlooked. He glanced at his watch. His contact was running late.

 _Then again,_ it occurred to him, _he's never been someone to bow to authority. especially my authority._ Morrison had vowed after Switzerland to never trust him again. The bloodshed and ruin and disgrace he had brought to Overwatch, the demolition of the work they had both created together... He wouldn't trust him again.

Yet here he was. The decision wasn't taken lightly: then again, the small army of men sent to try and kill him weren't armed lightly, either.

He'd been enjoying a normal morning in one of the various safehouses dotted across the world, only for the peace to be broken by a shaped charge on the wall followed by a fusilade of heavy weapons fire. Still, monkeys would have done a better job.

Even having been ambushed, Morrison took little time at all to eradicate every last one of his attackers. He'd assumed that Talon had somehow located him and dispatched Reaper- the embodiment of his former friend and comrade, now nemesis Gabriel- with his usual supporting arms to settle the deal.

What he found didn't add up.

Talon operatives, even their Covert teams, wore a Talon insignia on their right shoulder. These attackers didn't. Talon Identity Tags had a specific coding and ordering to aid administrative work, with ID codes being assigned by squads. These tags were a disarray of numbers and letters, nothing like those used by Talon.

 _Hm. If Talon aren't responsible, who is?_ He glanced at his PDA, still linked to Winston's comsat.

 _URGENT. TRACER MISSING, TRANSPONDER INACTIVE. INTERCEPTED SCOTLAND YARD FORENSIC REPORT SUGGESTS KIDNAP. NO KNOWN SUSPECTS._ There and then he made the call. As much as he never wanted to see, much less rely on the assistance of Gabriel ever again, he didn't see an awful lot of choice. Since Tracer's assignment to Overwatch all that time ago, he'd found that he became her adoptive father. Her safety came paramount to him. He wouldn't allow himself to live in the knowledge that she was in peril and that he wasn't doing something to be of help.

The call patched through. A familiar hoarse tone boomed through the earpiece.

"Who the hell is this?"

"An old friend.", Morrison replied, flatly. _Friend? With a friend like me, who needs the planet as an enemy?_ "We need to meet. You know where to find me. Be there at 0730 tomorrow."

With that, the line went dead.

Morrison heard a familiar whooshing, slightly louder than the wind, and felt a slight chill on the back of his neck.

 _About damn time._

"You've got 30 seconds. Talk."

Morrison took a breath, thinking once more over how to convince Gabriel to help. It'd probably make convincing the world to repeal the Petras Act look easy.

"Tracer's disappeared, kidnapped. I know Talon isn't behind it. They've tried and failed to take me down once already. I want your help to find these bastards, stop them and get her back."

Gabriel stood for a moment, indifferent. Morrison felt his nerve creeping up. Shen you can't see someone's eyes, you can't tell an awful lot about what's going on inside their head. Not that it'd matter.

Finally, his reply came. "I've got my own issues. Widowmaker... she's gone missing."

"Any trail?"

"Bodies, lots of 'em."

"Black uniforms, no insignia?"

"Yep."

"ID Tags that look loke a five-year-old typed them?"

Gabriel laughed. He was rarely amused by things nowadays- less so when it was a comment from his current nemesis- but when someone was taking the piss out of a mutual enemy, he couldn't help but see the funny side.

"Yeah. Same kinda guys that have already tried for both of us as well."

Morrison's stance softened slightly. His point had gotten through.

"So, the question still stands: do you want another set of eyes watching your back out there?" He extended a hand.

Gabriel grasped his hand and shook.

"Let's. This doesn't change anything between us, though."

"Naturally. Now, have you any more real intel to go on, or are we hunting in the dark?"

"I got some. Sombra, get your ass down here."

A flicker of purple, and the hacker supreme appeared like an apparition beside them.

"Si. Turns out these assholes are hardliners. Ex-members of Talon and Overwatch: you know, the ones both of us deemed too crazy to keep. They call themselves The Advocate. And here," she continued, bringing up a holographic map, complete with building renders, "is one of their cell headquarters. I doubt they're holding _Sénora Azur_ there, or _Sénora Veloz_ for that matter, but it should point you in the right direction." She tapped again, and the map shrunk away again.

"Not fancying a fight, huh?"

She chuckled.

"Ah, always playing _El Macho,_ Gabe. I'm on holiday, remember? Still, if I come across anything..."

"Gotcha. Stay safe."

"Of course, mis amigos. _Adios!_ "

With that, she vanished back into a cloud of purple code blocks and into thin air.

The pair glanced at the information they had.

"An old Omnic Foundry in Morocco. Shall we get some more people in to hel-"

"No." Morrison knew he was tearing his own combat pamphlet apart, but he had his reasons. "By the time we've assembled them, it could be too late. Besides, if you're half as good as yoy used to be, we should be able to take an entire continent on between us."

"Alright then. Let's get moving, we're wasting time yapping here."

With that, they made their way toward a lock-up containing a number of confiscated Combat VTOL craft, both of Talon and Overwatch construction. Next stop: Tangier.


	3. The Trail Begins

_Tangier. 8 hours later._ "You in position yet?"

"Yeah. I hope to hell you know how to do things the quiet way, Gabe. Theres a real mess of these fuckers down there and I'd rather avoid tearing the walls down."

Gabriel stayed silent for a moment. Jack heard what he figured was the death rattle of a guard in the West tower of the compound over his earpiece, before the reply back. "Get in, find out what we can, get out and avoid a small battle while we're doing it. Gotcha."

Jack flicked himself over the perimeter wall, landing in cover behind a stack of crates. This base appeared to be a forward logistics centre, perfectly located to strike into Europe. _Perfect,_ Sombra had noted, _for all your warring needs._ A pair of guards wandered along the gantry, above Jack's head. He heard the familiar whooshing above him of his former commander and friend doing what he loved: stifling the lives of his enemies. He heard the bodies strike the metal plating above him. "All clear up top. Let's move in closer for a better view."

As he moved up onto the now-cleared gantry, it struck Jack how much he missed working alongside Gabriel. He knew every blindspot, every movement down to its last.

The gantry gave way to a warehouse, one of the largest in the area. A quick scan with the Tac-Visor revealed what lurked in the dimness.

"Gabe, I count fifteen targets in there. One of them looks to be in charge, so we'll take him alive."

"For now." Gabriel never did like having to take prisoners. Despite Blackwatch's infamy for torturing prisoners, Gabriel's personal mantra was 'Take only intel, leave only bodies.' Still, he understood the reasoning: kill everyone inside, and they'd be no closer to success; take the commander alive, and lean on him slightly,

and they'd have enough information to continue chasing down their respective comrades.

Just before they jumped into the black, Jack stopped. "Hold up, there's an alarm system. I don't know about you but fifteen assholes is enough for one assault."

"Got it. Give me a moment."

He followed the black plume that was Reaper move swiftly up to the antenna, before grabbing hold of the power console and tearing it from the array. The lights on the tips of the array went dark, as Gabriel lifted the console above his head. "Let's see if they can catch."

With that, he launched the box at a group of five Advocates. The look of confusion followed by horror, as they first heard and then saw this metal pbject falling toward them was priceless, as it flattened them.

"Go!"

With that, the pair jumped into the main warehouse- now pitched into darkness, as the removal of the console for the antenna had also shorted the local systems- and set about converting ten remaining Advocates to nine corpses and a terrified commander. Even without using their weapons, the pair avoided any injury. They could see in the dark, whereas their adversaries had forgotten their night vision. What a pity.

After the last body had hit the floor, they glanced up, to see the Advocate commander running blindly along the gantry.

"He's mine." Uttered Gabriel over the earpiece, before drifting up into the path of the runner. The commander's eyes opened wide as the black-clad figure, with his infamous white mask, appeared from nowhere in front of him.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

With that, he took one swipe at the terrified commander, knocking him out cold.

 _One hour later._

The commander awoke, hands tied to a crane jib, toes barely touching the floor. "Hello, asshole."

He paled as he saw who he was faced with. _Reaper and Soldier 76? I'm for it now._"Okay, okay, I'll talk! I'll give you whatever you want, just please, don't hurt me!"

Gabriel and Jack both laughed. This was a damnsight easier than expected. Shame, too: even Jack was in the mood for a little questioning, Blackwatch style. He fancied doing to this guy what this guy's friends had no doubt done to Tracer and Widowmaker.

"Alright: where the fuck have your friends taken Widowmaker and Tracer? Start talking, or start feeling your leg bones snap."

"I don't know anything about that! All I know is where some of the cells are!"

"Ok then. WHERE?"

"T-theres one in Lagos a-a-and another in Romania, j-just outside Cluj-napoca! Pleeae! That's all I know! Do-"

His sentence was cut short by a fist across the side of the head, once again knocking him out cold. Jack glanced at Gabriel. "Not worth a bullet, was he?"

"Hell no!"

As they finished rigging the warehouse to blow- probably the greatest firework display Tangier would see, given the munitions in there- and turned to go, Gabriel felt one question couldn't stay unanswered.

"You know they'll be torturing them, right?"

Jack winced, thinking of the torment the pair must be going through. He didn't know how or why, but he even sympathized with Widowmaker's probable condition.

"Of course."

"Widowmaker's been trained to resist that for weeks at a time," he paused, contemplating his next statement. "I don't know if Tracer will stand it. These are some pretty deranged fuckers they're in the hands of."

Jack paused, as they stood on a rooftop outside the wall. "She'll be alright: she did survival and RTI courses as a pilot. Besides: I've had her do refresher training now and again; that, and I taught her three simple rules to help her stay focused."

"Three rules?"

"Yeah. One..."


	4. Three Rules

_The next morning._ _Advocate interrogation facility._ "One, bide your time," Tracer continued, holding one finger up. "Two, keep out of trouble."

"And three?" Widowmaker and Tracer had been guests here for nearly a week. The punishment they'd been through would have broken anyone else. Luckily, two things were on their side: First, they were hardened against the most part of their treatment; second, the guards no longer chained them up in the cell. Despite being known as worst enemies, the pair did get along quite well. Evidently helped by being alone. And having someone to talk to helped anyone remain sane and composed.

"Three," Tracer continued, holding her fingers up in a 'V' toward the cell door, "Never let the bastards grind you down. Jack taught me it. It's got me through some nasty things so far."

"As bad as this?"

"No, not even close. Still, it's pretty handy."

The interrogations had eased up recently. There used to be at least five or six a day, but now it was generally only the once.

"I suppose you've more to lose with this than me, luv." Tracer knew that her aim was simple enough: mislead and aggravate the wankers holding her and Widow until someone showed up. She didn't know anything much on the admin side of Overwatch, despite being a key operative. At worst, she could betray the locations of five safehouses and Gibraltar's access codes if they broke her.

She wasn't much use for intel, but Widowmaker was. She was a lot more clued-up on Talon than many operatives: in places even Reaper- still technically her handler given her designation as a covert agent- was less informed. Access codes, residences of key personnel, logistics depots, Talon-proxy cargoships and their routes across the oceans. The works.

"I suppose." Tracer had mever thought about it whilst dodging appointments with high-calibre bullets, but her former adversary was actually a lot... nicer, than anything she'd imagined. Nicer may not have been the word, but she couldn't put her finger on a better one. Of course the fact that they were unable to avoid each other's company, within these confines, may have been a factor, yet she seemed far less hostile than imagined. Her mind ran over a number of things whilst sat against the wall next to her.

 _I wonder how this whole thing is gonna affect the pair of us if we get out of here in one piece. I sure as hell will think twice about trying to kill her, I'm not sure she'll return the favour._ Her mind focused on the last part of that. _Would it hurt to ask_

Her thought wasn't able to be acted upon just yet, however, as she heard the clunk of boots in the corridor stop outside their door.

"My turn, I think."

"Bon chance, chére." Widowmaker uttered as the door swung open, and two black-clad figures dragged Tracer out of the cell.

"Has it occurred to you yet that nobody is coming for you? That nobody has even the slightest fucking _idea_ that you're here, and that you're never going to see the light of day again?"

Tracer kept her expression blank. Aggravating this upstart wasn't going to make her life any easier, nor would it get her or Widowmaker out of here any quicker.

He leaned toward her, and insult-slapped her across her left cheek. _Cliché,_ Tracer thought, as he proceeded to do the same going the other way. _That's the oldest one in the sodding book._ He grabbed her by the chin and spat in her face. She could tell he was a lot more agitated than usual. Perhaps something had gone wrong for these major dickheads?

"Take this piece of shit out of here."

The guards grabbed her from behind, removing her from the interrogation cell.

"Ça fait rapide, chére. You haven't broken, have you?"

Tracer pressed up against her, dropping her head onto her shoulder.

"Nope, just shattered."

"Ah. Am I your pillow, now?"

Tracer nodded meekly, a wry smile on her face.

"They're getting pretty edgy. Reckon somebody's out to find us?"

"Bien sur. Rey-Reaper is not someone who would let me disappear, and I doubt Morrison would let anything happen to you either."

Tracer was about to say something before it struck her like a small avalanche. _Did she almost say Reyes? As in... no way._ "Hold on... did you almost say-"

"Reyes?" Widowmaker paused, noting the look on her companion's face. Apparently, it wasn't common knowledge.

"Oui. The warrior you know as Reaper, the scourge of all who stand against, is also the man you and I once knew as Reyes."

Tracer's mind ached more than it had during any interrogation. _So Gabriel was now working for Talon? Well, he and Jack did fall out and cause Switzerland to kinda implode..._ The second point that struck her was ' _you and I._ ' Several things clicked into place at once. The tattoo on Widowmaker's arm- Cauchemar, nightmare- was the same which Amélie Lacroix, husband of the late Gérard, had sported.

She ran her finger along the lukewarm skin of Widowmaker, tracing the tattoo as she made sense of everything.

"Y...you're..?"

"Oui. Normalement, the treatments I am given by Talon to remain their prized asset prevent the personality of who iI was from surfacing. But now, after this... it's returning. Little by little. I hope this doesn't anger you, or change how we once got along."

Tracer shook her head. "No." She understood that what Talon had done wasn't particularly humane. They had buried Amélie under a number of suppressant drugs, and superseded her with Tracer's nemesis, Widowmaker.

Tracer decided that there was no better time to ask the question that had came into her head before her half-arsed interrogation. She looked up into the eyes of the widow.

"After this is over... if we're unchanged and Talon puts yoy back under again... will we still be enemies? "

Widowmaker paused, trying to put together an answer. There was no way to know whether what had happened here would remain with her, once Talon reconditioned her again.

"Je ne sais pas. When they put me back under, I may remember this, or it may be forced into the back of my mind, like me again." She smiled. "If I remember, then I'll make sure to think twice before I put a bullet in you." She kissed Tracer on the forehead, before the pair fell asleep once again.


	5. Bump in the night

_Lagos, Nigeria._

The facility sprawled out across part of the former industrial quarter of the city. This was going to be a mich harder task than Tangier. It seemed these monkeys were more alert as well: apparently, word gets around quickly when two men who are meant to be worst enemies, as well as being the single greatest threat to your plans, kick in your front door together.

"Told you we shouldn't have let him live," growled Gabriel, "This is gonna be some firestorm."

"Yeah, yeah... at least this place has hard intel."

"So?"

"Weapons free. That make you happier?"

Gabriel gave a hoarse chuckle, as he usually did before playing at being a ballerina with shotguns.

"Considerably. Let's kick some ass."

The pair had opted for a far less covert strategy than Tangier. Rather than waiting until dark and vaulting the wall, they were going for a more direct approach: cleanly through the front gate.

They'd hijacked a mobile AA gun platform from a group of insurgents- none of whom had lived to speak of it- and were now driving flat out at the gate. Gabriel was manning the gun system- a ZZP-23-2, formerly belonging to the Russian Federation- whilst Jack drove.

They were a hundred yards from the gate. Time to go loud.

"Gabe, time to say hello."

Gabriel acknowledged, lacing high-explosive rounds into every part of the defensive line at the front of the base. Advocates scattered left and right. Jack grimaced as he heard the maniacal laughter from the gunner's seat. _He's still one sadistic S.O.B. I guess that's why he's useful though..._

Quickly enough, the courtyard that had been packed with Advocates armed to the teeth and steeled for battle was reduced to a mass of spent casings, blood and corpses.

The truck careened to a halt amidst the mess, its two occupants vaulting from their positions. They drew their personal weapons and moved toward the main building to their front. Gabriel picked the lock in his usual style, by blasting the hinges and lock with a 12-gauge slug round. The door fell inward with a clatter. Darkness greeted them. Jack cursed as he realised his Tac-Visor was still in cooldown mode.

The pair swept inside, keeping their backs to the wall. No sense in walking blindly into a perfect killbox. A pair of spotlights blinked on, blinding them. As their vision cleared, the extent of the problem became clear: the gantries running along the upstairs section were lined with more Advocates, who in turn were packing the kinds of weapons that Overwatch would have only deployed to take on Titans with.

"Shit. Now what?" Gabriel growled under his breath.

A voice boomed over a megaphone.

"Alright assholes, drop your pieces before we drop you. You got three seconds."

The pair glanced at each other, deciding that this would be the most sensible choice. They'd be no use to Tracer or Widowmaker if they were vulture-food. They tossed their weapons forward.

As they hit the ground, all hell broke loose. A spray of lead tore through the sheet metal behind the gantry ahead of them. The spotlights shattered as confusion gripped the surviving Advocates, who looked onward at the places their comrades had been standing a fraction of a second earlier. Gabriel and Jack weren't about to let the opportunity slip. As they dived forward and reclaimed their weapons, a frame charge detonated on the roof, bringing down a slab of metal and support girder.

A figure swung down through the opening, unleashing a merciless barrage of fire upon the hapless foe. Tracer fire, missiles, particle beams, all kinds of ordnance zipped from one side of the warehouse to the other. Another explosion brought down a gantry, taking a dozen or so more hostiles with it.

Within a matter of seconds, the figure had quelled all resistance. The dust settled, and the firing ceased. One lone survivor attempted to crawl toward the door, a bullet through his leg. The figure approached him, before Gabriel and Jack, his weapon held barrel-up, in a somewhat calm stride. He stopped in front of the stricken Advocate, who froze, petrified, and glanced up.

"Now, where do you think you're going?" came the voice. A British tone. Slight cockney accent. He wasn't from London, but it was obvious that he'd lived there for a long time.

"N-n-n-nowhere! P-please don't k-kill me!"

"Kill you? No, death is far too painless for a bastard like you, Jameston."

"H-how..."

"I'm your new worst nightmare: You can call me the Poltergeist. I believe you have something- someone- belonging to us."

The Poltergeist. The name rung familiar to the pair. A vigilante, like Jack. The name 'Poltergeist' had been coined by one of the various media outlets, mainly because of his tendency to do two things in particular: one, he tended only to operate at night or in darkness; two, he had a habit of rearranging things. More aptly described as reducing buildings, camps, narco-states, whatever, to smoking ruins in a single night. No trace, no casings, very few witnesses. No known motive, until now. But how did he know about Tracer and Widowmaker?

He tied the Advocate to a metal chair that sat in a corner of a side room, as Gabriel and Jack followed him.

They got a clearer view of him now. Black fatigues, classic special operations clothing. Equipment in line with a Counter-Terror operative. And a patch on his right arm. The same kind of patch that... no, impossible. The man had died almost a decade ago.

He turned to face them, removing the tactical mask that had covered his face.

Even through their masks, both Gabriel and Jack stood stunned.

Gabriel started. "You're supposed to be-"

"Dead?" The figure scoffed, before chuckling. "Speak for yourselves, you bastards. I'd still have been napping nice and peaceful, if you two hadn't had that lover's spat back in Switzerland." Gabriel growled. "Ooh, feisty fucker. Still, we all know who wears the trousers between you two."

"Fuck you, Lamont."

He cackled, in his well-known maniacal style. The Advocate on the chair paled as he realised how utterly dead he was: Lamont, his former mentor; Reyes; and Morrison. All in one room. And all, presumably, after the same thing. The prisoners.

Another figure stumbled through the door.

"Dios mio, that's some mess out there boys!"

A familiar, purple-clad woman took up the left side of the doorway. She looked worse-for-wear than the last time either of them had seen her. A number of obvious bruises. A slight hint of a black eye. Cuts and grazes. Tears in her clothing. And was that soot from an explosion of some kind?

Gabriel almost choked on his words.

"Sombra? What the hell happened to you being on holiday, huh?"

She smiled, as much as possible. "I _was_ , until these cabrónes kicked in the door. Thank him, by the way," nodding toward Lamont, "for keeping me out of their hands. And for saving your asses _. Burros._ "

Gabriel turned back to Lamont. "Are you gonna get the info, or do you want me to?"

"I got it."

"Hey, hey, I'm protected. You can't touch me!" Their prisoner was about to get a short lesson in how he was wrong.

"Sure we can." Lamont sat on the man's lap, before backhanding him across the face.

"Now, are you going to play nice, or am I going to have to start removing fingers? Or bollocks?"

 _Thirty minutes, several gallons of water and various other torture implements later._

The corpse lay on the ground, motionless.

"Gabe, did you really need to slot the poor fucker?"

Gabriel holstered his Hellfire. "The last one we left alive blabbed. That's why this place went to shit."

"Very well." He tossed the holocard that the subject had on him to Sombra.

"Reckon you can get the info up?"

Sombra laughed at Lamont. "Does Gabe enjoy killing everything he sees?" Gabriel twitched: Sombra had almost taken Tracer's place at the top of his list of 'most irritating team-mates'. Almost.

"We've got two more facilities located: One in Dallas, the other in the Sierra Leone wilds."

"We'll take Dallas, you two can take Sierra Leone."

As Lamont walked to the door, Jack called after him. "We?"

"Yep. Me and Sombra will handle Dallas. I've already instructed McCree to-"

"No. We don't need anyone else getting..." He stopped as Lamont held up a hand, so as to say _shut your mouth, I'm going to make myself clear._ Despite having been his commander, Jack always found it interestingthe amount of power that Lamont had over anyone. Including himself.

"I know what you're trying to do, Jack: You want to keep this as tight a ship as possible. Well, it's not going to work with me. Besides, we have ex-operatives in every country. It's much quicker to task them to assist than have you two apes try and get there. Hours count, Minutes count. Lena means as much to me as she does you, mate. And I'm not about to let her down again."

"Fine. Just make sure you keep us up to speed."

Gabriel jumped in. "What about-"

"Romania? Already taken care of. That's how I found this place and you two. Come on, we're wasting time. Best of luck."

With that, Sombra and Lamont left for Dallas.

Gabriel booted up his communicator.

"Who are you calling?"

"The looks of this next place are that it's an _actual_ fortress, with a damn big door. Luckily, I have a key."

The call connected on speaker. "Akande, I have something for you. Meet us at the old Omnium Fort in Sierra Leone. And be quick."

"What kind of something would that be?"

"Destroying fortresses, laying waste to all in your path. Your kind of something."

"I'll be there in half an hour."

The call went dead.

"Well, Gabe, this is turning into one hell of a reunion, huh?"

Gabriel chuckled again. "That it is."


	6. Unwelcome Visitors

_Advocate Interrogation Facility._ Widowmaker stirred as she sensed movement in the cell. Tracer had fell asleep on her, having been taken for yet another interrogation. Three weeks ago, she'd not have hesitated to put a bullet squarely through her- admittedly pretty- face, but now... she didn't know. She couldn't feel anything, but something inside her told her that the girl using her as a pillow, who was half a decade her junior and a nuisance to fight, was no longer her enemy. Perhaps, even a friend?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp stinging in her thigh, followed by burning. Not a fire, but almost like acid. It felt like something was dissolving her leg from the inside out. Tracer jolted as the same thing happened to her. Her eyes shot open, as she begun to cry out in agony. Widowmaker didn't flinch much: it hurt worse than anything she could easily remember, but she could more or less tolerate it. The one advantage of having no emotions nor feelings- for now anyway- was that pain was also dulled to an extent. As Tracer continued to writhe in unbearable pain, the cause for their new misery became clear. Widowmaker almost huffed with laughter.

These morons had become so agitated with the lack of information they were getting out of the pair that they had decided to resort to even more cringeworthily clichéd techniques. This one being the use of scorpions. The idea was straightforward enough: allow the venomous scorpions to sting their victim, and inject the antivenom a short time later- long enough that they would be in incredible pain, but short of causing permanent damage. And sure enough, as she pondered this, the cell door swung open and a guard stabbed an injectorinto her leg. As it emptied into her she felt the burning sensation die down. She saw Tracer stop writhing, as though the invisible blaze covering her had been smothered by a blanket. The scorpions were removed and as quickly as they had entered, the guards left.

Tracer crawled back over to where Widowmaker still lay against the wall, still panting from the agony. Once she had recovered, she put her back against the wall, smirking.

"Quel est dróle, chere?".

Tracer almost giggled. "I'm going to make a complaint to room service. They really need an exterminator." With that, she lost all composure and started laughing. Even Widowmaker found that somewhat amusing, bringing a rare smile of sorts to her face. The thud of boots filled the corridor again.

"Ah, bollocks. Here we go again..."

The guards strode in, deciding again to snatch Tracer up and drag her from her companion. As the cell door slammed shut, she frowned. Surely by now, these morons knew that Tracer had no information of real value. So why did they continue to interrogate her, leaving the real prize for information in a cell? Soon enough, the door swung open again, and Tracer was thrown back into the cell. Unlike most times, however, she lay where she landed. A brief inspection from where she was sitting revealed to Widowmaker that the guards were no longer showing constraint. It looked like they had taken a baton or similar to Tracer. Her arm looked broken, and judging by the blood seeping out of her abdomen, they had caused some pretty severe injuries there as well. Her chest barely rose or fell. _Merde, c'est pas bien._ Broken ribs at best, a punctured lung at worst. The gash on her head and hair matted with blood explained her lack of movement: she was probably either concussed or out cold. She moved herself across to where her broken companion lay, still unmoving, and cradled her in her arms.

"C'est bien, chére, I'm still here for you." She stopped herself short of the next sentence. _It'll be alright,_ she was thinking of saying. How could she be sure? They'd now been here a week, maybe two, and there was no sign of anyone coming to save them. _Surely, someone was coming?_

She sighed, lying down around Tracer, and closed her eyes. She knew she had to keep her mind focused. Hope was the most destructive force a mind could suffer. Hope could break her if she wasn't careful, and breaking here and now would be worse than a thousand deaths.


	7. Revelations and Standoffs

The Texan Desert. 60 Miles South of Ft Stockton.

The facility couldn't have been easier to break into- or so Sombra had figured.

"A communications base. And everything is wired to a central net: juego de niños."

With that, she flicked up a small holopanel, before proceeding to tap away at a speed neither Lamont nor McCree could quite understand. After about a second and a half, the sound of power shutting down in the facility greeted their ears.

"Wow, Sombra, you're getting slow at breaking and entering." Lamont mused, raising an eyebrow.

She cackled, before replying "Care to try it, amiga? Let's go, before they figure out how to switch it on again."

With that, the trio slipped through the hole in the perimeter wire and made a beeline for the first cover they could see.

"Remember, nobody fires a shot unless we have to."

McCree nodded. "Guess we're doing this the ole' fashioned way, huh?"

"That indeed. Let's go downtown on 'em."

Compared to their colleagues on the other side of the world, they actually understood the meaning of stealth. They moved as one through the Advocate facility, gleefully dismantling the operatives within. They came to a steel door.

"I though y'all said you'd opened the doors, girl." McCree muttered, slyly.

Sombra snapped at him, gibbering away in Spanish. More likely a barrage of insults, given she hated her reputation being questioned. While they disputed the fact of the door being shut, Lamont got to work. As usual, the important stuff's locked down manually, he noted as he wired up PX-9 inside the barrel of the lock, though I happen to have a skeleton key.

He turned his back as he blew the lock, without bothering to warn Sombra or McCree. That had the added effect of snapping them out of their argument. The three faced the door, still held by its hinges.

"You realise all mother of trouble is probably waiting in there, amiga?"

"Perfectly." With that, the three took a boot to the door, the combined force ripping it off its damaged hinges and sending it flying about six feet across the room. Sombra wasn't wrong: as the sight of several dozen aiming lasers greeted them.

"J, give them your gift."

McCree smiled, as he swept his hand from under his poncho, slinging a flashbang into the center of the room. The trio dropped to one knee, taking the typical precautions they had learned when working around flashbangs: eyes closed, mouth open, and fingers over the earplugs they were wearing. A loud crack followed by agonised howling signified the success of the plan, as the lasers were pointed in all directions. Rather than waste ammo and risk damaging any of the computers that would potentially hold intel, they chose to get up close and personal. Sombra slid between two half-dazed gunners before popping up, grappling one by the head as she took down the other. Omega and McCree were somewhat less finessed where their fighting skills lay: while Omega decided to fall back on his unarmed training- dating back a century or so- McCree decided to go for traditional fisticuffs. It worked great, until he tried punching someone in the chest who was twice his size and several times his weight.

The fight was over in under a minute. The groaning, incapacitated Advocates littered the floor of the control room.

"Well, that's sure one way to get the blood pumpin'. Haven't had a fight like that since my days with Deadlock..."

Omega and Sombra laughed as they set to work finding information. Sombra paused as she realised something. Spinning around, she spotted a camera on the wall.

"We're being watched." She whispered to the pair.

"Greetings, dickheads." The voice boomed out across the tannoy in the room. "Or should I say, goodbye."

A digital counter took up each of the undamaged screens. Counting down from 60. Sombra swore under her breath.

"I take it you can't wax that device?"

"Nada."

"Right. Grab what you can and let's get the fuck outta here!"

Sombra worked frantically on the server while Lamont and McCree flitted through the drawers, stripping them of anything important and shoving them into the knapsacks. The counter hit twenty seconds.

"GO! LET'S MOVE!" The trio sprinted through back through the door, barely clearing the doorway into the lower facility before a searing heat hit them from behind as a shockwave flattened them. They picked themselves up as they realised the structure was still standing.

"That was an-" Sombra was cut off, mid-sly remark, as they were showered with dust and shards of concrete. An I-beam blocked the door as more chunks of concrete fell.

McCree glanced out from the brow of his Stetson.

"Fuck this!"

With that, he dived through a window. Sombra and Lamont looked at each other. "Ladies first." With that, Sombra followed by Lamont made headway.

They landed in a heap on top of McCree.

"Ow, hey! Who said you could use my ass as a cushion?!"

As the three stood up and dusted themselves off, Sombra chose to make up for her being cut off previously. "Well, if you class cushions as being bony and full of .44 Shells ready to go..."

As he glanced over, McCree noticed something that looked out of place. A patch had been torn open on an Advocate by shrapnel and debris. He uncovered it, tearing open the sleeve. "Uh, guys..."

The pair looked in at the sleeve McCree was holding. The patch on the sleeve. Talon.

Lamont turned to Sombra. "Looks like the bastards have been hiding things from you too. Fancy a change of company."

A wry grin appeared on her face. "Si, but only if-"

"You get to do as you please and nick whatever information you like? Sure, go ahead."

She popped open another holoscreen. "I managed to crack which frequency their cameras are working on. Welcome to Sierra Leo-" she gasped as the feed appeared. Reaper, Doomfist, Morrison and- Ana?- were locked in a standoff. Obviously, something had set them off.

"We got voice?"

Sombra nodded, clicking a few things on-screen. The hoarse tones of Gabriel came through the speaker.

"When the fuck were you gonna tell me you were reactivating everyone, huh? Huh?!"

"Easy, easy. Put the fucking weapon down."

Lamont, Sombra and McCree all knew immediately what the problem was: Leone must've had intel regarding NEOverwatch. And Gabriel didn't like that one bit.

"Right, we're gonna have to stop them. Give me your translocator. McCree, head for the old airstrip out by Houston, you'll find transport there. I'll see you two in Leone."

As he knelt down and grabbed the corpse, McCree stopped and turned to face him. "How're you getting there?"

Lamont looked up, briefly. "By doing something I really don't wanna have to do. Close your eyes and get ready. This'll be loud." He closed his eyes and lowered his breathing. White electrical sparks appeared from almost nowhere. Lamont cried out as they connected. A white flash blinded the pair as a deafening crack filled the air. As their vision returned, they glanced over to where Lamont had been, only to see a scorched circle around his last place.

AUTHOR ENDNOTE

Sorry it's taken so long to get this chapter out, I've had a bit of a creative lapse, as you may be able to tell by my writing style, as well as having a lot to get in order in life. I'll try and get the next chapter done soon. I hope you like the (semi) plot twist. A few of you may have already guessed it.


	8. Double-Double Cross

_Sierra Leone._ _10 miles Southwest of Makeni._

Jack had been flitting through the goldmine of intel they had uncovered when he heard the familiar click of a pair of 12-gauge automatics. One at the base of his skull, the other behind the left side of his back, in line with his heart.

"When the fuck did you plan on telling me, huh?!"

Gabriel was incensed. The file lay at his feet: turns out NEOverwatch wasn't so well-hidden after all. He'd skim-read the dossier, becoming more unsettled as he went. Everything he'd been a part of was coming back, without him. He'd felt betrayed enough in the beginning, when Jack was earmarked to lead instead of him. Now this.

Jack stood and turned slowly, rifle still gripped in his right hand.

"What?"

Gabriel's aim remained unwavering as Jack turned to face him, staring him dead in the eye.

"I tried. You were too busy tying up loose ends, remember?"

Gabriel flinched slightly. The fact that Jack already knew what he had been up to in the years since Switzerland was somewhat disconcerting. By now, the argument had attracted Doomfist's attention. He brought his left fist up, figuring that at this range a twin laser bolt would be more effective than a micro-earthquake.

"So, we're being crossed once again, are we?" Akande was somewhat more composed than Gabriel, yet no less aggravated. A red dot appeared on his chest, as the staccato of boots on the concrete approached.

Gabriel's response to the Egyptian revealing herself was somewhat less than polite. " _Why_ the fuck doesn't anyone stay dead any more?!" Despute the harshness of the insult, Ana brought a wry smile. Gabriel's focus returned to Jack. His fingers tightened on the triggers. Jack knew fine well how dangerous this was: Gabriel was unhinged- virtually everyone knew that- and had a pair of weapons that, at twice his current distance, could make pureè from an E-54.

"When the fuck were you going to tell me, huh?!"

"Easy, easy. Put the fucking weapon down."

"Why should I? You fucking back-stabbed me once, and now you're at it again!"

Jack didn't have a chance to respond as what seemed to be a flashbang went off woth a deafening crack. The four fell to the ground as the ringing in their ears subsided. Jack cursed under his breath: he knew getting into this argument would cause trouble for everyone. As their sight returned, something odd befell their eyes.

"Ow. Not... doing that... again." The figure stood up, surrounded by scorch marks. A few moments later, the familiar purple of Sombra flashed into existence next to him.

"Amgia, how many secrets do you wanna keep?"

He smiled at her. "A...few."

Sombra helped him to his feet as he dragged the slightly crisped corpse across the floor.

"He ain't double-crossed you. Not as bad as you thought, Gabe."

She took hold of the arm with the patch exposed and waved it at him.

" _We_ have been backstabbed. Not by him, or him, or her," gesturing at the three former Overwatch agents in their company, "but by the assholes who claimed they were taking us under their wing."

Gabriel stared at the patch on the arm for what felt like an hour before letting out an agonised howl at being deceived, and blasting the arm into oblivion. He turned to mist and disppaeared into one of the buildings.

Jack holstered his weapon. "I'll go. Give me five minutes." He turned and walked in through the opening that Gabriel had just vanished through.

As he entered the darkened shell of the building, he found Gabriel stood in the center. Holding a pulse grenade.

"Don't bother coming any closer. You know I'll blow this fucking thing."

Jack ignored him, moving closer. Gabriel's finger tightened on the pin.

"Why bother blowing yourself up?"

"Why not? Everywhere I go, some fucker's betraying me. You, Talon. Why should I bother any more?" Jack had closed the distance, now stood a foot from Gabriel. He clasped his hands over Gabriel's over the grenade.

"Because we need you. I need you. They need you. Besides," he went on, leaning in closer, "you're the most deranged, fucked up and psychotic bastard I know. And the best way to fight these guys is fire-with-fire."

Gabriel chuckled, before throwing the grenade over his shoulder.

"Though so. How did you know the grenade was a dud?"

Jack was dumbfounded. "It was a dud?"

The pair headed outside, arm over one another's shoulder, resolute in their aim: finish the job, kill the bastards and get their team-mates back.

"If it makes you feel any better, I ain't leading the new organisation. Winston is."

"Fucking seriously?"

"Yup. He's the only one who can issue the recall, remember?"

"Aha! Gotcha!" Sombra was elated as she found what she was looking for. "Seems our friends are aboard a ship. MV Istanbul."

"I know the one: Talon proxy-ship. Where is it?"

Sombra smirked. "International waters. Perfect."

"How are we getting there? We've got no..." Jack tailed off as the hum of repulsor engines dominated the ambience. A dropship settled mext to them as the rear ramp swung open. A somewhat woozy and green-pallored Texan staggered down the ramp.

"I feel like hell. Anyone got a bucket? I gotta throw."

"That's my question answered. Let's load up, liftoff in five."

McCree's face paled further as he retched slightly. "Aw hell no..."

AUTHOR ENDNOTE

I know the last few chapters have been pretty short. They felt right at the time to leave them in that state. I also know Omega took precedence in the last two chapters, from here he'll be taking less of a central role. I hope you like the way this works out at the moment.

B.


	9. Pieces of the Jigsaw

_MV Istanbul_

Tracer stirred, as her body begun to regain some feeling. She instantly regretted having it back, as every part lit up with pain as though it were on fire. She'd been given a biotic shot: not strong enough to fix her, but enough to ensure she didn't die. The ends of broken ribs grated against each other as the various broken bones dug into the tissue surrounding them. She cried out in pain, only managing a stifled whimper owing to the blood in her throat. She also became aware of a cool presence embracing her.

"Stay still, chérie. Ce cera bien."

Tracer tried to speak, barely managing a whisper. "H...how long...was I ou..t?"

"Hours. I think."

"Wh...What happ...happened?"

"They took you out. Maybe five minutes. Then they dropped you back here."

Tracer was obviously in no state for coherent speech. Concussion seemed likely. Hopefully, it was just that rather than something worse. There was only hoping now.

"Shh... Coucher, chérie."

As she knelt up, Widowmaker heard the familiar clunk of boots up the hallway. She grimaced, praying that they'd target her rather than Tracer. Sure enough, she was their intended questionee this time.

"You pair of dim-witted fucks think you can run rings around us. You think we don't know what you're trying to do." With that, her interrogator hit her in the back. She realised that it was not simply a plank of wood, but one with nails, barbs and all other shrapnel embedded. She cried out in agony. _Of all the times for me to regain emotion..._

Another blow landed. A snap signified that her arm was now broken in yet another place, causing another howl of pain. The smile on her interrogator's face made it very clear as to how sadistic these creeps were. They loved bringing pain and suffering to others. A hit fell on her chest. A barb caught on a damaged rib as it exited. Her attacker twisted it around, pulling on the weapon for maximum effect. Widowmaker couldn't remember ever being in as much pain. Not even during the attacks that made her into who she was now. The pain was brought to an end somewhat swiftly, with a rifle to the side of the temple. As she lost consciousness, something caught her eye. The arm of one of her aggravators. _Cette emblème... il ne peut pas étre!_ The black enveloped her as she felt two sets of hands grab hold of her.

She awoke in the cell. A pool of blood had appeared around her, but nothing serious. At least Tracer seemed a little more alert and conscious now. She'd sat herself up against the wall next to the door, awaiting Widowmaker's return.

By this point in time, neither's clothes matched their signature style any more: Tracer had only been wearing a pair of leggings and a t-shirt when she had been attacked, both of which were that coated in blood, mud, oil, bodily fluids of all kinds and god-only-knows what else was coating the floor of the cell. Her shirt was torn, as were her leggings; Widowmaker wasn't fairing much better, as her bodysuit was torn to the point that it was barely identifiable.

Neither of them were in good shape either. Broken bones, numerous head injuries inflicting concussions of various severity, bleeding from so many lacerations that it seemed there were more injuries than skin left.

"I've got some news for you, you may or may not like it. I think this shit's getting infected." Tracer held up her bloodied arm. Even in the dim yellow hue of the lamp above the door, it did look off-colour.

"I've better news pour vous."

Tracer raised an eyebrow, wincing as that action hurt to perform as much as any. "Hm?"

"Looks like I may not be putting any bullets in you after this. Ever."

"Eh?"

"Ces salaudes, I believe I found something new about them. One was wearing an emblem, I barely saw it before I blacked out..."

"Go on."

Widowmaker took a breath, almost shuddering from the thought: the bastards had broken her and twisted her to fulfill their evil desires. And now, they had tried to clean house. Her included.

"The patch... was Talon. Les fils de putes. They've crossed a line. They've crossed me. So, it looks like we might be on the same side now."

Even despite the circumstances they were in, the agony of their injuries, the anxiety of not knowing what lay in store, Tracer's face lit up somewhat.

"Really?"

"Tellement." She crawled across to Tracer, ignoring the grating of various bones in the process, before hugging her. And then realising that both had bones in those parts of the body which were broken beyond belief. As the pair winced, muffled noises echoed above them. The pair froze.

"Is that-?"

As Tracer begun to utter the question, all hell broke loose as various alarms sounded. The door swung open, and a small group of guards descended on them, dragging them from the cell.

The gunfire was clearer, and closing every second. The guards threw the pair down a flight of stairs, scooping them up as they moved deeper into the hull before reaching a hatch.

"Everything set?"

"Yessir."

"Good. Do it."

As the hatch swung open, the pair felt a slight pricking in their necks as a pair of hypodermic syringes injected an anaesthetic into them, subduing them. As blackness engulfed them, they caught the details of what appeared to be...

 _A... submarine? Surely... no..._

AUTHOR ENDNOTE

I'm acutely aware that these chapters are getting ever-shorter. It's intentional and yet unintentional: the shorter chapters help build a little bit more of the suspense and so on. At the same time it's because I'm running out of ideas as I write each chapter because none of the content is pre-planned, it's mostly ad-lib writing.

Hopefully you all have patience with it and enjoy it equally.


	10. Boarding Party

_Ten minutes earlier. Over the South Atlantic._

The team were sat in the back of the Covert dropship as it skimmed the icy waters east of South Georgia. Sombra had found out about Winston's being in charge of Overwatch, sparking a fit of laughter. Gabriel's response was to fire a blank round at her: obviously, it didn't harm her, but it _did_ cause her to jump and fall off her seat with, a shriek and howls of laughter from the others in the bay.

Mercy had joined them as well by this stage, having broken off from her humanitarian work in the Africas to help. If anyone would be able to undo the damage done to the pair, she would. However, she, like Ana and Winston, had no idea of the Poltergeist's true identity: Omega had replaced his mask and demanded of the three or four who knew to keep quiet. "Or else", he'd remarked with an evil smirk.

"All right, quit the clowning around in there," came the gruff tones of said simian over the tannoy in the cargo bay, "We're coming in hot. Odds are that they're holding Widowmaker and Tracer in the mid-decks in the center of the ship. You'll want to start there. Remember: watch your fire. We don't wanna go to all this effort just to kill them by accident. Good luck."

The inside of the hull rattled slightly as twin smart-cannons lit up the hostiles lining the edge of the deck. Dull pings signified small-arms fire returning against them. The dropship lurched violently. "Incoming, hang on!"

The ship lurched the other way as Winston launched a barrage of missiles, raking the deck and ripping apart the SAM turrets that were trying to knock them from the sky. The ship swooped down to the foredeck as the door swung open. A green light flickered on as the team disgorged from their transport.

"I'll circle back in ten. Don't be late." The team fanned out across the deck as they swept aft, toward the bridge. A hatch swung open as a dozen or so more targets appeared. They hadn't learned to use cover, however, as a matter of half a second later- and several hundred rounds- they almost ceased to exist.

Before Winston took the ship into a high orbit, out of range of any secondary measures or debris from explosions, he strafed the ship from bow to bridge, eviscerating metal and man with the 30mm shells.

"Alpha, you're up. Beta will switch to our side and begin our sweep. Make sure you check your fire, Gabe. I know what that damn buckshot looks like and if I find any in me, I'll be putting one of those Hellfires somewhere you don't want it."

The team split into their smaller groups: Alpha, consisting of Jack, Gabriel, Mercy and Sombra were to sweep the port side of the ship below decks, while Beta, consisting of Omega, Ana, McCree and Doomfist swept the starboard. They found the access doors on the sides of the bridge and got to work.

"We'd better move fast, the crew have already keyed their Squawk. Expect Talon fast-movers in five."

As Alpha swept Subdeck 3, Mercy halted them. She knelt down, tapping her fingers against some residue on the floor before appearing to smell it.

"What is it?"

"Blood. Tracer's."

Gabriel's stance showed his confusion.

"How the hell can you tell that by sniffing it?"

Angela smiled. "Years of medical experience and patching Tracer up. I'd know the smell of her blood anywhere, the amount of times it's coated my hands."

She pointed to a visible trail leading through the hallway and into another door. "Follow me."

On the other side of the ship, things were getting interesting.

"Now what?" Ana was used to being affronted by walls of white-hot lead and phased pulse rounds, but this was entirely new. The Advocate unit had brought a team of men wielding Incinerators into the fight. Regardless of all else, everyone knew- or at least thought they knew- that these heroes _weren't_ immune to fire.

"I will draw their fire," Doomfist called out, having been separated from the other two, "aim for their fuel tanks!" With that, Doomfist broke cover and bolted at the Incinerators, using his gauntlet as a heatproof shield. As the Incinerators changed target, Ana swung out of cover. Silently, she praised her decision to ditch her signature .338 Lapua for something a little faster-firing. The DMR ripped through the first advocate's tank with a 7.62 NATO Incendiary round, instantly setting its pressurised contents alight and turning the line of Incinerators into a screaming mass of fire. Doomfist broke off his run, admiring Ana's handiwork, witha wry grin on his face.

"And here I was, under the illusion that you were a humane sniper. I stand corrected."

"It's humane if they deserve it." Ana replied, almost sarcastically.

"Beta, this is Alpha: rally on us, we've picked up the trail. Subdeck 4, Section A-2-7." The trio didn't stop to acknowledge, each vaulting the gantry and landing in the open hold section adjacent to Alpha's location.

The teams converged on a locked pressure door. Doomfist ushered the rest of the team back as he drew his fist back.

"Ready?"

"Yep. Do it."

He nodded, before slamming his fist through the door with such force that it more or less took the superstructure surrounding the door with it. The advocates waiting on the other side dropped their weapons and surrendered: when fighting someone who can take a door apart which was designed to shrug off breaching charges with a single punch, is fighting really a sensible choice?

The team swept through the door, to be greeted by a new problem: as it turned out, the ship had a contingency plan in the event an enemy force were to board: Gabriel and Jack leapt from the railing into the water, attempting to board the submarine before it could depart. As they surfaced, a number of alarms sounded above deck as a pair of hydraulic hatches in the bow of the ship opened, turning the drydock into a deployment point. The pair scrambled back onto the superstructure, realising that it was futile to even try to board now.

"SHIT! I shoulda known that fucking thing would do that!"

Jack glanced at his best friend and once-right-hand-man. "What?"

"The Istanbul. I forgot all about it: this is the ship Widowmaker was sent to for neural reconditioning between assignments. The labs were based on a sub inside the ship so that if this happened..." He tailed off as Winston's panicked voice took up the com.

"GET OUT OF THERE, NOW! INCOMING M-" The hull of the hulking supertanker lurched to one side and rolled as a pair of XJM-3 ship-killers struck the port side. Immediately, the hold begun to flood.

"Everyone on deck, now!".

The team scrambled through the ship, dodging falling piping and panels as the ship continued to list to port and plunge by the bow. As they reached Subdeck 2, the hull begun to groan and creak, before a tearing noise was heard as the stress of the violent movement tore the ship apart. The section slammed back down into the water from a 20 degree angle, lifting everyone off their feet and slamming them to the floor.

"FUCK! GO GO GO!"

It had taken the team less than 90 seconds to reach the deck, but even by then it was almost awash. Winston brought the ship in as low as he dared, acutely aware that the change in air pressure if the ship were to sink could potentially drag his craft down as well. As the last of the team boarded, Winston lurched his craft up, in time to witness an explosion under the surface, punching a wall of water about 200 feet into the air. As everyone regained their breaths, a look of horror befell Jack.

"Shit. Where's Sombra?"

"Oh fuck. fuck fuck fuck! No!"

As he and Gabriel panicked, A familiar face popped up an inch from Gabriel's face, tapping the cheekpiece of his mask.

"Boop!"

Gabriel jumped with shock as the sodden girl clutched her chest, laughing uncontrollably.

"THAT is for the blank earlier, gilipollas. And don't worry about that sub, I've fixed it." Bringing up one of the HUD screens built into the floor of the hold, a map of the planet appeared, with a red dot and traceline behind it.

"Spiked them! Hang on, let's make this a little more personal..."

A few taps later, the red dot had been replaced by a pair of icons, looking like an anime rendition of Widowmaker and Tracer.

"Now, I'll that sub isn't gonna resurface for a while. Not until the heat has died down"

Gabriel and Jack had both taken their respective headwear off, revealing their battered faces. "Well, let's call the Junker Duo. They'll be of use."

"Nein, das ist a bad plan." Mercy broke into the discussion now. "We're trying to _save_ those two, not vaporise them and whatever they are held inside!"

"Relax, Angela," Gabriel muttered, as he slotted a cigar between his lips. "That ain't why I'm calling them in. First, the sub ain't gonna resurface for a while yet, so we won't risk killing our friends."

Angela was confused. "Then why bother calling them? It makes no sense to involve someone when they aren't going to be able to do anything, except perhaps occupying hold space."

Gabriel smiled, he drew a lighter and struck the flint. "They will be useful," as he lit the end of his cigar, before closing the lighter, "Because we're about to light the biggest fire you've ever seen under Talon's ass."

 **AUTHOR NOTE**

Not a bad chapter, I hope. Longer than some of the others, at least. And can you guess where the ship-cum-submarine idea came from? (Hint: starts with 'X', ends with 'Men' ;) )

As you can see, things are going to start getting... lively. And while I start to draw this story to its climax, I'm going to start work on a shorter story for Halloween. It's going to be somewhat different to most Halloween stories as it won't have anything to do with Junkenstein, although *hopefully* the story will still be an interesting and tense read. Think RE: Apocalypse and you won't be a million miles from the basic idea I've pondered since August.

Ciao!

B.


	11. Firework Display

_Somewhere in the Australian Outback._

Jamison Fawkes, better known by the callsign 'Junkrat', groaned as he opened the door of his shack to find a familiar black-clad ex-operative sat on his chair, drinking a glass of his home-made liquor. He'd been just about used to life after Overwatch. That, and being dragged in on do-gooder jobs by Soldier 76, whom he had realised was in fact their former leader.

"You need to learn how to make moonshine, you know that?" The familiar low growl was one Fawkes had grown used to during the innumerable briefings and debriefs in the Glory Days.

Junkrat took a few paces through onto the room, closing the tin sheet door behind him.

"Which bladdy seppo did you crawl out of then? And I'll suppose you're here to knock me off, mate."

Gabriel laughed, both at Fawkes' response to his being in the room and his belief that Gabriel was here to kill him.

"Why the hell would I want to do that?"

"You're Talon, mate! Any old tosser knows that!"

" _Ex_ \- talon." Fawkes jumped somewhat as the voice echoed out from behind him, before the creaking of floorboards tracked the movement of the figure, who had been behind the door, across to Gabriel's side.

"Oh right. I s'pose you two have settled your lover's spat and remarried each other, eh?"

The blank stares of rage soon wiped the smirk from his face and silenced his chuckling.

"So... whaddaya want with me, eh?"

A wry grin appeared on Gabriel's face again. "Well, we're going to go and light a nice big fire under Talon's ass. They already snatched Tracer and Widowmaker, and they're off-grid for now."

"Woah, no. Not after the last bleedin' do-gooder bollocks you dragged us into. You wanna know how long I spent in the fucking cooler for that?"

Jack chuckled again. "Yeah. You got me to thank for getting your sentence halved."

"Oh. Still-"

"This one's off-books, _mate_ ," Gabriel interrupted, "And frankly, the goddamn Petras Act hates us all equally. So we'll all be equally fucked. Besides, we ain't getting caught."

A smile appeared on Fawkes' face, suddenly erased and replaced with confusion. "So, y'want me to turn their bases into massive Barbies? What the hell with?"

He needn't have asked.

 _Two hours later. Former Overwatch Supply Depot._

If pictures were a thousand words, Fawkes' face spoke a million. It was like giving a kid the keys to a warehouse full of candy and a blank cheque. His eyes teared up with joy.

"A-anything I want?"

"Uh-huh." Gabriel knew exactly what he had just done: he had essentially given Jack the Ripper the keys to old London Town. _Still, he's a necessary evil._

Fawkes clapped his hands together, wringing them. "Alright then, let's get cracking!" He practically skipped around the warehouse, throwing various items into the duffel bags on the loading pallet: anti-tank mines here, HEAT rounds there, as well as about 300kg of plastic explosive and hundred metres of detcord.

After about an hour, he had finally finished loading up the pallet mover, which now groaned and creaked under the strain.

"All done, mates!"

Mako, who'd been following Jamison, shook his head. "I'm not pushing," he grunted.

 _6 hours later. Venice, Italy._

Again, a smile appeared on Junkrat's face. "Better cover your ears, mates." It had taken him about 2 hours to set everything up: half an hour to sneak in, covered by Ms Amari's expert eye and suppressed rifle; an hour or so to wire up various IEDs made up of things such as mines and artillery rounds and whatnot; and half an hour to sneak back out. All the while, the rest of the team perched on the cliff above the headquarters complex.

During this time, Gabriel had disappeared. Nobody was quite sure where, but it wasn't that big an issue. It wasn't as though he was about to double-cross them. Again.

All the while, Sombra tapped away frantically, trying to glean whatever information she could, as well as information for her own gains.

"We're set. Hit it."

His thumb hovered over the detonator switch. "Fire in the hole!"

With that, he dropped his scarred and charred digit down onto the red plastic button. With a beep, the radio detonator complied. A microsecond later, the greatest firework display anyone could ever imagine lit up below them. The charges lit up from one end of the facility to the other, as smoke billowed from beneath it where the supports had been blow out. With an almighty creaking and ripping of metal, the entirety of one side of the facility slumped into the ancient marshland below. As the chaos below settled, Sombra cursed.

"Damn. I lost the data."

"Aww, fuck. Now what? The tracker died an hour ago, so..."

McCree's outburst tailed off, as the sooted, black-clad and somewhat irritated looking figure appeared at the top of the cliff.

"You could've fucking warned me you were about to light the fuse."

"Oh. Sorry, mate."

With that Gabriel dropped the holdall he had over his shoulder. It begun squirming on the ground, with muffled squealing inside.

"Is there, uh, a human in that trunk, amiga?"

"Yup."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

Gabriel scratched his neck, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "One of the senior members of the Talon Council. He'll be useful, providing he hasn't had a heart attack."

A group of lights appeared, rising against the smoke.

"Ah, fuck. Get ready..."

The red tartgeting lasers of the three gunships lit up. Just before the drones entered range, a missile blazed over the team's heads. The center ship in the formation exploded, knocking the other two out of the sky in the blast. A triumphant whirring/humming echoed behind them. Jack and Gabriel turned together, to see who had just saved them.

Who was replaced by what. The angular frame of The Bastion stood, sillhouetted by the moon save for its blue faceplate lighting, with its cannon arm raised as though punching the sky. Next to it, a smaller figure stood with a bolt gun.

"Eventually, we've caught up to you. Then again, how could we miss an explosion like that?"

A grin lit up Mercy's face. "Of course it'd be you guys! Long time, no see, Torby!"

The Swede cackled. "I'm not the only one here, neither is our friend here."

The ground trembled slightly, as Torbjörn's companions strode out from behind The Bastion. A figure, around 7 feet tall, clad in gunmetal- coloured armor, with a hammer standing as high as him. Next to him, an unfamiliar figure. Female, it appeared, yet with almost the same build as her male companion.

Sombra paled slightly, as she recognised who this woman was. "Ehh..."

"Ah. I should have known that you'd be here, _Olivia._ "

Despite Sombra's complexion, it was obvious she was blushing, at Zarya's knowledge of some of her most well-hidden secrets.

"Olivia? Oh... this is too good!" Gabriel couldn't help but cackle almost maniacally at this trinket of information. By now, Zarya's nose was separated from Sombra's by a fraction of an inch.

"Surprised, are we?"

"Emm... Kinda, si."

"Next time, my dear, I will give you this advice: a bullet is more effective than mere explosives."

It was Sombra's turn to chuckle, albeit nervously. "That won't be necessary. We're on the same side now, okay?"

"Sure." With that, Zarya lifted a finger to Sombra's nose. "What is it... 'boop'?" with that, she squidged down on Sombra's nose, deforming it by an inch.

"OW! Hey!"

Jack and Gabriel were only vaguely aware of the somewhat hilarious exchange. They were overlooking the remnants of the Talon building. "Now what?"

"We should pump him for information."

Gabriel was surprised. Normally, Jack would never suggest torture should be carried out, even in the most dire of circumstances. For him to change tack, that showed _how_ serious this was. Even for him.

"Reckon he knows where they've taken them, Jack?"

"You should know. I hope."

Gabriel huffed at this statement, amused. "Yeah, he will."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Let's get on with the job."


	12. Means To An End

_Talon Alternate Base. Former Shimada Castle, Hanamura, Japan._

 _3 days later._

The two figures stood at opposite sides of the desk. It was evident that there was tension between the pair, as one was shakily lighting a cigarette, while the other cradled a half-lukewarm mug of coffee.

At last, the one of the two smoking broke the silence.

"Well, what the fuck is the plan now, Jon?", he muttered, between puffs of his cigarette, blowing acrid smoke from the cheap tobacco into the air.

Jon put his cup down on the table, half expecting to miss the edge and send the mug plummeting onto the solid floor and into a thousand shards. It occurred to him that this would be a tangible display of Talon at this moment in time. Every major installation around the globe had stopped transmitting, as though they had disappared into thin air. Obviously, the friends of their 'guests' had wised up.

"That is the million dollar question. These fuckers aren't going to break any time soon, and their buddies are bound to find us some time."

The other man in the room took a longer drag on the tube between his fingers, evidently on edge and using the limited nicotine to take the edge away. "So? That ain't exactly gonna solve us the problem. So, what's the fucking plan?"

"Simple enough. We waste them, Marc."

The cigarette slipped from between Marc's fingers, bouncing slightly off the concrete and spraying red embers of tobacco out. "What?"

"You heard me." By this point, Jon was sat on one edge of the table, fiddling with a shell casing. "We'll end up killing the pair of them before we break them or get any information. So, we waste the bastards anyway. Make all their buddies' work pointless."

"Has Venice ok'ed this?"

Jon cocked his head, irritably. "We haven't from Venice for more than four transmission periods. They're wasted."

"What about-"

"-The head? Gone. Likely nabbed."

Marc stooped down to pick up his cigarette. "Right. So," he continued, now back at normal height as he drew his lighter again, "when are we gonna waste 'em?"

"Let's go for dawn."

"Gotcha." Marc flicked the wheel on his lighter a few times before it lit. He put the flame to the end of his now-damaged cigarette, taking another lungful of smoke. "I'll see myself out, and I'll get that prepped."

With that, he turned and sauntered out the door, barking instructions in Japanese to the operative stood down the corridor.

AUTHOR ENDNOTE

I know that this is even moreso short, but again, the aim is to build suspense. A crescendo to the final act.

And now, there's a new dilemma for our heroes: will they reach Widow and Tracer before a painful death?

"Find out tomorrow, same time, same channel!" (perhaps not tomorrow though.)


	13. The Draw of the Noose

_AUTHOR NOTE_

 _Alright, this story is approaching its terminus pretty rapidly. I've kinda lost my interest in OW and fallen in love with the world of Life is Strange, hence my Halloween themed story 'Contagion' being canned. This is likely to be my last OW story before I transition to Life is Strange, as I've already got the basic frame (about 200 words and a clear idea for the chapter) for a story there._

 _Sorry to those who are OW-crazy as I was, I just happen to have fell in love with the universe of Life is Strange._

 _RAAF Edinburgh. Adelaide, Australia._

The operatives walked toward several parked aircraft on the edge of the airstrip in what felt like 30 degrees. The aircraft in question were not cargo planes as one would expect, or even RAAF aircraft for that matter, but a flight of RAF Vikings. These were highly advanced tactical bombers, coated in stealth materials and with a payload bay large enough to accomodate small vehicles or very large bombs. Today, they would carry neither.

The arm-twisting it had taken to make this work was unbelievable. Sort of. Omega had been in touch with an old contact of his, in charge of the squadron of RAF aircraft at the base. Convincing him had been easy enough.

 _"I can't authorise a training sortie of that length without the permission of Wing Command."_

 _"Is that so?" Sombra had asked in a theatrically quizzical tone as she falsified the document in a flicker._

 _"Ah. I suppose I'll see you in an hour then. And ry? Don't be sodding late. Again."_

The hardest part had been- acquiring- the TAS.61 modules. Tactical Assault Systems were the 21st century answer to parachute drops. A capsule designed to look like a bomb and which conveniently fit in the bay of a Viking, with the ability to carry up to 30 with full equipment. It had, however, been accomplished, allowing the squadron to leave the ground on cue. The flight plan called for an arrival over the drop zone around an hour before dawn. Perfect for an assault of this kind.

"By the way, Jack," Gabriel muttered over the shielded comms inside the pod, "I've arranged for the Troublesome Twosome to meet us at the DZ."

"Good. Sombra, what of your contact?"

"Sénor Tandaka? He's got his men in position. And I must say, amiga, these Japanese Intelligence guys don't mess around. They could probably give you a run for your money, Ana."

Ana replied in her usual kind, with a glare of _drop dead_ aimed at Sombra.

"Alright, cut the catfighting in there. Here's how it's gonna go down: The Bastion and Pod 3 will drop first, and take out the checkpoints on the Western approach. 1 minute behind them will be the remainder of the force. The DZ is far enough away to avoid any accidental conpromise, however we'll jam their alarms as a failsafe." Jack could feel the usual lump in his throat, the same feeling he'd had before a thousand operations larger than this one.

This one was different. Rather than fighting for the future of the planet, they were fighting for the lives of two of their own.

 _Several hours later. Hanamura, Japan._

The Shimada brothers had been arguing for about ten minutes straight as to how best to tackle the problems they'd encountered on the ground. Their argument was cut short by the thunderclap synonymous of an object breaking the sound barrier.

A glance through the optics they had to hand revealed a foe who were confused and terrified. Both emotions could be justified: Confusion at the sound of what one could only otherwise liken to lightning, and terror at the thought of the probably unpleasant and definitely agonising death that was now hurtling toward them. At a little over 700 miles per hour.

The first thud signified The Bastion's pod landing, not applying its kinetic dampeners to reduce the downward acceleration to a survivable level until the last possible moment. The pod door flew open, and even before it had fully cleared the line of fire, a stream of white-hot tracer fire ripped it in two and found its mark in the fire control system of the enemy automated weapons a few hundred feet away.

"Shall we get in there, brother?"

Genji stared across at Hanzo, in what would have been a sarcastic questioning look were it not for his mask. "Naturally."

As the pair moved toward the fray, working as destiny had intended in a past life, another succession of thunderclaps signified the main body's arrival. The pod doors blew off, as one somewhat paler and groggier Sombra staggered out, followed by an inconsolably amused Reaper.

"That's for tormenting me for seven fucking years!" He cackled as he charged to his usual position, dead centre in the mayhem. As anticipated, no alarm bells sounded, no reinforcements arrived and within a matter of a couple of minutes, not one guard stood. The various operatives fanned out in an arrowhead, moving in the direction of their rendezvous with the PSIA operatives Sombra had managed to _encourage_ to join them in their cause.

The team reached a clearing, when Reyes called a halt. "Something ain't right, this is too damn quiet. Even for the countr-"

His sentence was cut off short, as 50 or so figures wearing what appeared to be ome-piece silver-black combat suits materialized from thin air. One with a plasma rifle to Reyes' head.

"There is no fear-"

Gabriel huffed as he recognised the agreed codephrase, as quaint as it was.

"-but fear itself. About damn time."

The figure lowered their rifle, before gesturing the same to the remainder of their forces. "Reyes-san, you are late."

Reaper shot another dagger-like glare at Sombra, as it took little deduction to understnad _who_ had informed this PSIA agent of his true identity.

"Now, my sharpshooters are in position along the north wall, overlooking a courtyard. Amari-san, you will find the position most favourable, as the sunrise will be at a right angle to you. Everyone else, you may form up along the other approaches and near the main gate. My saboteurs will have mined the gate by now."

"Yes sir."

The figure cocked its head, before removing the mask of the suit. "Ma-am, I think you'll find." The leader of the PSIA team replaced her mask. "Now, what are we waiting for?"

The PSIA operatives re-cloaked, the only evidence of their presence being light footprints and a slight hazy appearance to the air. Damn, that was some next level technology. As, jack supposed, were their weapons. Which meant their explosives would likely turn Junkrat green with envy.

The teams moved to establish themselves in their various positions, as the first rays of light appeared from behind the mountain range of Mt. Miyazaki in the far distance.


	14. Author Note

**AUTHOR NOTE**

 **Well, folks, I suppose it was going to be the case some day or other, but today is that day.**

 **Effective immediately, I'll be moving my activity over to AO3. I've already set up shop there and got a few stories up and running, and my aim is to have all the LiS stories moved across by the end of the week. Overwatch stories which I've written will be staying here permanently.**

 **I'll still check this account periodically for the sake of correspondence as I'm not as ignorant as some would make out. I'll also be on here to read stories based here anyway, the only change being that no further upsates will be made.**

 **Why, you may ask? Well, despite a lack of a mobile app and a shorter store time for draft chapters, I find AO3 is somewhat easier to use.** **Formatting tools are up to more, the general editing mode is slicker and it'seasier for me to keep track of reviews and feedback**

 **Find my account** **under the same name as this account, Blackadder261.**

 **Until next time, guys.**

 **P.S: This is a standardised message across all existing stories. All stories, complete or otherwise, will remain in their current state.** **All unfinished stories will be retagged as incomplete so as to avoid provoking any issues.**


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